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Monthly Archives: November 2013

Maybe I’m just getting old. Maybe it’s my years and years living on a steady diet of 90s alternative, Billy Joel and Hall & Oates. Whatever it is, I can’t stand current music these days. It’s just crap. It makes me sad to think that even I could produce a Top 40 – in my spare time. All I need is a Casio, a 4-track, the ability to rhyme some words and a few huffs of Rust-O. Yahtzee! I wonder which word the brainiacs at Kidz Bop will substitute for ‘vagina’.

For your reading pleasure, or for your complete indifference, I’ve here delineated a few reasons why I hate music today. And I’ve numbered them. Because I’m practicing numbers. How am I doing? You can tell me later.

1) The Biebs.

2) Ke$ha, et.al. I’m just fine with skanks. Really. Skanks are an integral part of the natural balance of humankind. Without skanks, the tube dress industry would be bankrupt and we would have never enjoyed those snappy Valtrex commercials. (I can kayak and ride horseback with herpes? Sign me up!) BUT the music industry is just crawling with these chicks that make me feel as though I should gargle with turpentine just for listening. These young lasses have to remember: porn stars become porn stars because they CAN’T become recording artists. And that’s all I have to say about that.

4) The return of jaunty sax solos. Really? I’m as much of a fan of Clarence Clemons as the next guy, but sax solos in modern pop music? Whose idea was that? Unless you’re Dave Matthews or Huey Lewis, I don’t want to hear a sax solo in your pop song.

5) Nikki Minaj.

6) Female artists singing in baby voices. You are allowed to sing like a baby when you are, in fact, a baby and no other time. Gross.

7) Whiny assholes. There are too many to name. And I wouldn’t want to hurt any of their fragile, wittle feelers. I mean, dude, go to therapy like the rest of us. Sort out your daddy issues there. Rinse out your vagina and sing about something manly for Chrissakes, like tractors.

8) Guys that sing about tractors.

9) Vampire Weekend. Now, which kind of vampires does this weekend consist of? Sparkly, doe-eyed vampires that feed on deer and game? Or 30 Days of Night, terrifying, rip your throat out and walk around with blood all over your face and you don’t care vampires? Because those are two drastically different weekends. Either way, you’re pretentious.

In the eternal words of some crazy bum I once met on the subway, “I am your gynecologist.”